


But we are spirits of another sort

by Spatzi_Schatz



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fae, Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, Canon-Typical Violence, Fae & Fairies, Galra Keith (Voltron), Haggar drops the Cruciatus Curse right away, Legilimency, M/M, Occlumency, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Psychological Torture, but it shouldn't get more violent than that, keyword SHOULDN'T, mild body horror
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-19
Updated: 2019-05-28
Packaged: 2020-01-16 05:45:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18515119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spatzi_Schatz/pseuds/Spatzi_Schatz
Summary: Keith wakes hearing whispers that lead him into the Forbidden Forest...At first he doesn’t notice it, what with the chirps of the morning birds and his focus on his form, but the morning wind carries it to him with the rustling of leaves. He stops, straining his ears to listen to the whispers, half-remembered from his dream, but Keith swears he remembers it from even deeper in his memories, just outside his reach.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This sprang forth from a discussion of "atypical" house alignments for the Voltron gang, and I'm a slut for fae lore so... you have been warned. Also, Hufflepuff is a great house and this is a hill I will die on. Don't @ me. 
> 
> And Thank you [nautilicious](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nautilicious/profile) for the awesome beta! You earn all my 💕

The scent of wet earth teases Keith’s nose, if he inhales, he’ll be smothered. Somehow, he’s not sure he minds, though he knows he should. There’s a sense of comfort, contentment, in being surrounded. He can feel himself being pulled down deeper, roots wrapping around his limbs like the coils of a snake. He takes one last deep inhale through his nose before he is entirely submerged in darkness. All he can hear is his own heartbeat, all he can feel is the subtle pressure of dirt against his skin. He feels like he’s floating.

Harsh whispers break the sensation and bring him back into his body. He strains his ears, trying to hear what they’re saying, to understand them. It itches at his brain, like if he could focus on them for just a second, he could decipher them, but they slip like quicksilver through his mind. Then there’s a violent tremble in the earth around him, a vibration through the ground and rock that shakes through to his bones. The tremors get louder and louder, bigger and bigger, until Keith tries to bring his hands up to his ears, but he can’t move. He’s paralyzed, trapped. Whatever it is, it’s getting closer. It’s going to get him, to catch him, devour him. He needs to go. He needs to run. _Now._

Keith wakes gasping for lungfuls of air but unable to get any of the oxygen to his panicked brain. Digging his fingers into the crisp sheets to ground himself, he keeps his eyes closed until he sees stars explode behind dark lids. He focuses on observing without judgement: he’s in the Hufflepuff dormitories. Lance is snoring two beds down, he can smell the mint and tea he crushes for his overnight skin cream. The scent mingles with the fresh grasses the house elves must have laid out in the common room down the hall. There’s also the even fainter scent of the beginnings of breakfast pastries wafting through from the kitchens. He inhales deeply and forces his shoulders to relax from around his ears before finally opening his eyes.

He knows without casting a tempus that the sun hasn’t even risen yet, but a faint pre-dawn blush is coming through the high windows, giving everything a hazy gray warmth. For a brief moment, he considers burrowing down in the quilt and trying to fall back asleep, but it’d be no use. With a deep sigh, Keith pulls his dagger out from under his pillow and gets up. An unusual warmth pulls his gaze to the small blade. It normally feels warm in his hand, but this is a different feeling, less comforting and more of a warning. He can almost see the rune on the guard pulsing with blue light through the cloth wrap. He rubs his thumb absently over the cloth before sliding the knife into its sheath and strapping it to the small of his back. That, more than anything, helps to shake the lingering feelings of the dream.

Throwing on an old pair of leggings, a ratty jumper, a cap and his usual fingerless gloves, Keith creeps into the common room. Waiting for him—like he knew there would be—is a small stack of buttered toast, a couple of apples, and a ceramic thermos of tea. After four years at Hogwarts, one would think he’d be used to the house elves’ particular brand of knowing what he needs before he does, but he hasn’t. Though he’s gotten more accustomed to it than feels comfortable. So he keeps his mess to a minimum, goes out of his way to tell them when they make particularly good tea blends, and in general tries not to be a nuisance to them. After polishing off all of the toast and one of the apples, pocketing the other for later, he brushes all the crumbs back onto the plate and pulls a scrap piece of parchment off the table to doodle them a little thank-you note. As he picks up the thermos of tea, the plate—and the note—disappear with a small pop.

Sipping the tea as he walks, Keith makes his way to the passage shortcut that leads onto the grounds, back behind the greenhouses. He taps his wand in the appropriate pattern to make the large potted rhododendron scuttle out of his way. He ducks in and climbs the stairs, plain wooden planks dug into dark earth, that lead to the small hatch that hides itself in the grass. It’s these hidden parts of Hogwarts that are his favorite, these quiet in-between places that vibrate with the saturation of magic, that fill him with a sense of awe as he peels back their layers of secrets.

The morning is cool and damp as Keith walks through the grass, disturbing the early-morning dew. He puts the chill out of his mind when he finds a patch of relatively soft ground near the tree line to begin his morning training regime. The tea—a sparkling pomegranate green tea that Keith jealously guards—sits warm in his belly as he begins with stretches and then moves to strength and cardio exercises. By the time he’s gotten to shadow training and the forms Kolivan has been teaching him, his hat has fallen off and sweat sticks his hair to his forehead.   

At first he doesn’t notice it, what with the chirps of the morning birds and his focus on his form, but the morning wind carries it to him with the rustling of leaves. He stops, straining his ears to listen to whispers, half-remembered from his dream, but Keith swears he remembers it from even deeper in his memories, just outside his reach.

The whispers hiss and tug at him, pulling him closer to the edge of the forest. As if maybe, if he gets close enough to the mysterious source, he’ll understand. Something flits through the trees in the corner of his vision, but when he turns, it’s gone. He hears snickers now amongst the whispers. Drawing his knife earns him taunts from the voices, making him snarl, even as he swipes at the next glimpse he gets in his peripheral vision. He lashes out again and again, and the laughter and whispers just get louder, closer.

The sound that rips itself from Keith’s throat is more of a roar than anything else as he slams his dagger into something malleable behind him. There’s a collective gasp of the voices as the dagger comes back thick with ichor. Then silence.

 _Fuck._  Keith doesn’t even bother to look at what he hit. He just runs.

Even with the half-second head start, Keith hears the horde of whatever-they-are give chase. It sounds like the crash of a wave against cliffs as they break through branches and brambles, the angry chittering of a thousand tiny voices. He tears through the underbrush, ignoring the rending of his skin and clothes. He jumps over roots and fallen tree limbs. Out of the corner of his eye he catches flickers of movement, but never a full glance of what’s after him. When he lashes out, the blade catches nothing but air even as he feels their teeth on his heels and calves, tugs on his hair. Talons rake down his shoulder, sending him stumbling through a patch of fern and skidding down an embankment. Blood pours freely down his shoulder, his face, his leg as he stands facing a pebbly beach of a stream. He’ll never make it across and up the opposite embankment before whatever it is chasing him catches up. He has to make his stand here. With a quick breath, he pivots on his foot and holds his dagger tightly, crouching and waiting for the onslaught.

It never comes. Behind him, the forest is quiet except the chatter of birds and the occasional scuttling of small creatures through bush. Keith stares hard at the trees, trying to catch the darting sharp movements that had chased him through the forest, straining his ears to hear the whispers. Nothing.

Slowly, so slowly his muscles protest after just racing full speed through the forest, he comes out of his defensive crouch, though he keeps his tight grip on his blade. Had the whispers and wild pursuit been just his imagination? An illusion made more solid than most? It wasn’t unheard of for the immaterial to do serious physical damage, though that was typically seen in wards and protective charms and _that_  hadn’t looked like any protection magic Keith had ever seen. Besides, wards didn’t instigate, and those buggers had definitely instigated.

That meant that Keith had come into a place they didn’t dare chase him. Was it the sunlight maybe? Or... the water? Keith looks back at the stream, babbling along and sparkling in the dappled light that comes through the trees, waterbugs and dragonflies flitting just over the surface.

Keith doesn’t trust it. At all.

Keith wouldn’t trust any sort of pastoral scene, especially in the middle of the forest. The Forbidden Forest. The forest that is forbidden to students… Which he is now lost in, instead of being in his mid-morning Transfiguration lesson.

“Fucking hell,” Keith groans. “Kolivan’s gonna kill me.”

Keith presses his fingers into the bridge of his nose, trying to fend off the panic before it takes root. First of all, Kolivan won’t have the chance to kill him if the forest beats him to it. So he has to make it out alive to give his godfather a crack at him. That only seems fair, considering all he’s going to put the man through. That means Keith needs to deal with his wounds. He glances at the stream again. He still doesn’t trust it, but he edges closer to the clear water.

“Don’t do anything weird with my blood,” he tells it, before dipping his hands into the water to clean out his cuts and scrapes. As his blood washes down the stream and nothing seems to happen, Keith relaxes a little more. He leaves his sore and swollen feet in the cold water for a bit longer, sitting on the bank and cupping his hands to drink. The water is crisp and ice cold and tastes faintly of juniper berries. It sends a shock through his system, instantly banishing the slight panic and pain clouding his mind. He takes in two more deep handfuls of water before feeling ready to continue.

“Right,” he says, renewed. “Home.”

Luckily, his wand is still tucked in the pocket of his leggings. In his panic, he hadn’t drawn it. His first defense had been his knife, would probably always be. Maybe he really was a shit wizard. He shakes the thought from his mind and lays the wand in the palm of his hand.

“ _Procuratio_.” he tells it, and his wand starts spinning. Spinning, and spinning, and spinning, like a confused compass in a magnetic field. Keith sighs and pockets it again. Well, it was worth a shot. He’ll just have to follow the stream until it leads him somewhere. Even if that somewhere isn’t on Hogwarts grounds, he will at least be able to contact someone if he finds a village or something. Plan made, he starts walking.

For the first bit, Keith walks in the shallows, picking his way through wet rocks along the pebbly beach. As the sun climbs higher in the sky—or Keith assumes it’s climbing higher; between the dense tree limbs and a slight haze of cloud cover, he can’t get a good sense of where the sun is— the day becomes unseasonably warm for October. At some point, he sheds his sweater and ties it off around his waist and fishes an elastic out of a pocket to tie his hair back. The shorter pieces still fall out in front, but it’s enough to get the longer bits off the back of his neck.

He doesn’t know how long he walks; the tempus charm isn’t working either, because of course it’s not. He thanks his lucky stars for the hiking trips he and Da used to take. He can’t even begin to imagine a pureblood wizard like Pidge, or even Lance, out here without the use of magic. He shudders just imagining the amount of whining they’d be doing right now. He wonders what Shiro would do in his place, but shuts that line of thought down before it can get far. Shiro isn’t here, he is, and if he is going to see his friends again, he has to find a way _out_  of the forest. Which also means not starving before then. As Keith begins to survey the banks, he slows his gait, looking for any sort of edible plant life.

It doesn’t take long before he spots what looks like a patch of wild blackberry across the water. Keith easily picks his way across, jumping from rock to rock without losing his balance, and scrambles up the embankment on the other side. As he’s about to reach out to pluck a handful of berries from the bush, a sudden voice freezes him in place.

“Wait! Don’t eat from _that_  side of the bush!”

Keith spins, hand on his wand, as he looks through the trees for the source of the slightly-accented voice.

“Down here!” the voice huffs. Keith looks down. Sitting on one of the bush’s thicker branches is a caterpillar-looking creature with multiple arms and a strangely-knitted red scarf.

“Ello!” The caterpillar says.

“Uh.. hello..” Keith stutters, though the caterpillar continues to talk over him.

“Now, as I was saying. Don’t eat from that side. If you eat from that side, there is a 78% chance this is the reality where you don’t make it out of the forest.”

“Uh… okay? Can I eat from the other side?”

“Yes,” the caterpillar says. “That side is safe in 93% of realities.”

“Right..” Keith moves to the other side of the blackberry bush, the caterpillar crawling after him. Keith tries not to watch the slightly creepy way all the arms move as he starts to pick berries, filling the pockets of his sweater.

“Wait, wait, wait!” the caterpillar starts to panic as Keith lifts the first berry to his mouth.

“What now?”

“You can’t just pick four handfuls,” the caterpillar tells him. “Four is an unlucky number. If you eat from the fourth handful, you’ll likely die!”

Keith barely refrains from rolling his eyes, but stares at the caterpillar as he pockets the handful and picks another. “Better?” he asks.

The caterpillar nods, either ignoring or missing entirely the sarcasm. “Much.”

“Thank Merlin,” Keith mutters as he shoves the berries into his mouth, humming as the ripe fruit bursts against his tongue. The caterpillar continues to chatter, though Keith tunes him out as he eats his fill of berries from his pockets, occasionally humming or grunting so the funny little creature thinks he’s still listening. He wonders briefly if it’s a sign that he’s finally cracked that he’s pretending to listen to a talkative insect, but decides that he’s seen weirder so it’s probably fine.     

“Hey,” he interrupts, “you wouldn’t happen to know the way to civilization, would you?”

“Me?!” the caterpillar squawks. “Of course not! I don’t leave my bush. If I do, there’s a 92% chance I die in 60% of realities!”

“I figured not,” Keith says. “But isn’t there a 100% chance of death in all realities eventually?”

The caterpillar splutters, but before he can answer, Keith’s attention snaps toward the sounds of a struggle somewhere nearby. He hears snarling, shouting, and the angry snorting and squealing of a horse. Instinctively, he crouches.

“Time to go!” the caterpillar says, diving deeper into the bush. “What are you doing?!”

Keith ignores the caterpillar as he creeps forward, drawing his wand this time as the noises get closer. Just on the other side of a thicket of brambles, Keith watches a small bundle of fur and limbs tumble through the underbrush with a distressed whine, then limp toward the river. What Keith thought at first was some sort of animal is actually a child (though child is a very loose description of the thing covered in deep blue fur), stumbling and bleeding.

He feels the fall of the hooves in his chest before he sees the massive beast that’s chasing the poor creature. Standing taller than any horse Keith has ever seen, taller even possibly than Keith himself—Keith isn’t even sure the thing _is_  a horse, but that’s all Keith can think to compare it to. If horses had manes made of hellfire and mouths full of fangs and jaws that looked like they could unhinge to snap the child in half. Astride the horse monster is another creature, with violet fur, large bat-like ears, and glowing yellow eyes. It sneers when it sees the child and lifts a massive broadsword as it kicks the horse forward into a charge.

“ _Protego_!” Keith shouts, throwing a shield charm over the child as the sword comes down, sending it skidding off in a shower of sparks. The horse screams and bucks as Keith throws a hex at it. The thing riding it yanks around to face Keith again, its eyes narrowing. Keith’s next hex catches it across the eye and the creature roars.

“Go!” Keith yells at the child, though it’s already scrambling, running on fear and adrenaline as it sprints to the river. Keith turns just slightly, moving to block the horse and rider’s path, and sees the child turn into a wolf pup with three tails on the other side of the river before scampering into the forest.

“You! You’ve lost me my prize, Altean spy!” the rider snarls. Blood is dripping from its swollen eye. “No matter.. you’ll make a better offering to the emperor.”

The horse snorts and tosses its head before the rider urges it into a second charge. Keith only just manages to dive out of the way, but instead of bringing the sword down again, the rider grabs a fistful of Keith’s hair and yanks him off the ground. Pain explodes behind Keith’s eyes, and he loses his grip on his wand, crying out involuntarily as the rider bashes his head into the trunk of a nearby tree.

“Do not struggle,” the rider growls. “You do not need all of your limbs to be interrogated.”

Keith stops struggling, if only because his vision is swimming and he can feel the hot breath of the monster horse and the fire of its mane licking at his exposed skin. The rider barks a few words Keith doesn’t understand and thick vines bind his wrists and ankles together. With his last coherent thought, Keith whispers a few words to hide his blade before the rider brings his gauntleted fist down on Keith’s temple and the world goes dark.

Keith wakes again in darkness, the ground is cold and damp underneath him, but the air is so close he feels like he’s choking on it. He can’t see, but he can hear the murmuring of voices, low groans and whimpers, and the shuffling of bodies. He shifts upright, slowly and carefully, and feels the metal chains that have replaced the impromptu vines, feels them burning his skin where they’re cinched tight to his wrists.

“Hello..?” he tries. The murmurs hush, but no one comes into his field of vision. He can already feel the headache beginning behind his eyes from the strain. His mouth is dry. Now that he’s awake, he’s hyper-aware: every little noise makes him jump; every little breeze sends shivers down his back. The voices around him pick back up, but he can’t make heads or tails of what they’re saying.

He wonders faintly if maybe this is all a fever dream. Maybe he never actually woke up this morning. (Would it still be this morning?) He wonders, if he is actually awake, how long he’s been gone, if anyone is looking for him, if anyone has even noticed yet. If they have, have they owled Kolivan? He wonders what his godfather will think. Will he worry? Will he think Keith has run off again? How will he know to look for Keith? He stops wondering.

He tries to breathe through the panic seizing his chest. He inhales, lets the panic crystalize, gathers it as he holds his breath, and pushes it out as he exhales. He does this a few times until the panic is gone, the fear just an undercurrent in his mind. _Patience yields focus_ , he repeats.

Since he has no way to track time, he doesn’t bother with it. He just lets his mind drift as he catalogs what his senses can perceive. The ground beneath him is damp earth, fairly hard-packed, but he can still dig his nails into it and bring up chunks of what feels like dirt and clay in little ribbons. The cell he’s in smells like earth, but also organic decay, still water, and unwashed bodies. He hears in the distance, booted footfalls, two by two and echoing, and in the middle distance, still the nonsense whispers, though calmer now. He can’t quite make distinctions between voices, so he’s not sure if they’re overlapping conversations or just noise.

He drifts like this, cataloging sounds and textures and smells, until the rhythm of the footfalls come closer and stop. There’s scuffling, and the voices go silent as a door is pulled open. Keith hisses in the sudden brightness and bangs his wrists on the restraints as he throws his arms up to block his face. Two figures yank him to his feet and drag him along. By the time Keith’s vision clears, it’s been several minutes and he’s disoriented, unsure if he could navigate his way through the curving, crossing tunnels.

Eventually, the escorting guards stop in front of a set of large, ornately-carved wooden doors, each looking as if they were hewn from a separate ancient-growth tree. In tandem, the guards place their hands on the doors and the thorned vines, with spikes as long as Keith’s hand, curl away and the doors swing open. The guards frog-march him through and nearly haul Keith off his feet as they shove him down a short flight of wide stairs. He ends up kneeling in the dirt at the bottom of a pit, looking up at coliseum seats full of some of the strangest creatures he’s ever seen: trolls, red caps, ogres, erlkings, spriggans, goblins; he thinks he even sees a minotaur. The entire arena is opulent, every surface covered in rich, deep velvets and silks, encrusted with gems and reflective colored glass, and absolutely drenched in magic. It’s so charged, Keith can feel it coating his tongue, making it taste like a dead thing in his mouth.

The crowd roars around him, creating a ringing in his ears. A movement at the edge of his vision draws his gaze up to the center box where two thrones sit, one clearly larger than the other, more resplendent, and unoccupied. In the one just to its left sits a woman, so thin as to almost appear gaunt, her features, her posture, everything about her sharp as shattered glass. She lifts long, clawed fingers and looks down at Keith with glowing yellow eyes.

“Sendak. What is this you’ve brought before the court?”

From behind him, Keith hears the voice of the rider he had faced in the forest. Craning his neck, he can just see him standing on a balcony jutting out over the courtyard.

“Your Imperial Majesty, Empress of the Galra,” the rider, Sendak, says. “While out in the highland quadrant, I found this Altean spy skulking about.”

The woman’s lip pulls back in a sneer. “Sendak, you may be a formidable knight, but you are also a moron. This boy is no Altean.” She rises to get a better look at him, coming to the edge of the balcony to study him down her long nose. Her purple and black robes shimmer with gold embroidery and obsidian stones as they float behind her. “Did you drink of the river?”

He isn’t conscious of the choice to answer her, in fact in his mind he chooses not to, but the answer comes to his tongue regardless. “Yes.”

Her smile sets his teeth on edge. “Good. You are now our guest. How much?”

“Three mouthfuls,” he answers dutifully, hating his traitorous voice.

Her eyes glitter. “Three decaphoebs our guest. And what is your name, boy?”

“Keith.” He doesn’t dare say more. All appearances to the contrary, he does pay attention in History of Magic. And Defence Against the Dark Arts. He knows where he is.

The Empress levels him with a look. “What is your full name, boy?”

Keith clenches his jaw, a feeble attempt to keep the information back. “Keith Kogane,” he says behind his teeth.

For the first time, the woman frowns. She scrutinizes him harder. “That’s… not quite right. What is your full name? What is your secret name?”  

Keith doesn’t answer right away, or he doesn’t answer fast enough, because the Empress’s eyes narrow. She flicks her wrist, says a word, and then Keith is suddenly in excruciating, blinding pain. He thinks he screams, but he can’t be sure. He can’t hear anything over the roaring in his ears and the sensation that millions of jagged teeth are burrowing into his abdomen. He wants to curl in, protect himself, but any sort of movement hurts. Everything hurts, he just wants it to stop. Anything to make it stop.

“Keith Kogane is my full name!” he screams. “I don’t know any other!”

Finally, blessedly, the pain stops. Keith is panting, his hair sticking to his forehead and the back of his neck, tacky with sweat. The Empress stares down at him, her eyes still cold and searching.

“That will do for now I suppose,” she says. “Where are you from, Keith Kogane?”

Keith tries to swallow as he fishes for an answer. “I’m from… a different forest.” He gets a mean smile.

“Well, Keith Kogane from a different forest, that is a very strong glamour you’re wearing. Let’s see what’s under it, shall we?”

With another flick of her wrist, the pain returns. This time, it _burns_ , racing across his skin, up his arms and neck, down his spine. He watches as his fingernails fall out of their nail beds, his knuckles crack as the bones break through the bloody skin as claws. His skin too is sloughing off in huge chunks, replacing its pale expanse with lilac fur. He’s now choking on a mouthful of blood, and among the blood and viscera he spits it into the dirt, he sees several teeth before new teeth erupt through his gums with shocking pain. Black spots swim in his vision as he feels several bones—hips, shoulders, spine—dislocate, shedding more skin as they grow and realign themselves. When it finally ends, Keith is shuddering and gasping, desperately trying to get air without sobbing. He barely hears the Empress’s self-satisfied, “much better.”

“Now that you’ve shed your false skin, you may join us,” she says.

Keith snarls up at her. “No.”   

She looks at him as one does a willful child. “Join or die. Victory or death. Welcome to the Court of the Galra Fae, Keith Kogane of a different forest. _Vrepit Sa_.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Keith can hear the roar of the crowd. He wills his spine to straighten and tightens his grip on his chosen weapons. The Galra guard prods him with the butt of his spear and Keith snarls at him instinctively, but goes where prodded. He steps onto a stone platform and it begins to rise, as if it could sense his weight. The screaming of the crowd gets even louder until it’s all Keith can hear as the platform lifts him into the center of the arena. In her usual box sits the empress, tall and regal and cold. His eyes slip closed for a moment before he hears the shriek of his monstrous opponent. _Sweet Circe, please let someone be looking for me._

When the guards escort him back, they have to drag him because Keith can’t walk. He lost track of how many opponents he fought before the Empress got bored of watching. His whole body is in pain, so much so that he can’t think beyond it, even to look forward to the inevitable adrenaline crash. He makes it as far as when the guards unceremoniously drop him in a cell and slam the door before he slips into unconsciousness.

When he wakes, his head pounds and it feels like there’s a hippogriff sitting on his chest. But, as he catalogs his surroundings and takes inventory, he also feels clean bandages against his skin, his broken ankle has been elevated, and he thinks there’s actually a very thin mattress underneath him. He moves his fingers and toes, rolls his head from side to side gently, takes as deep of a breath as he can, before opening his eyes. 

They didn’t throw him back into the same cell, as he assumed they would. This one’s smaller, but it’s at least illuminated by faint violet light cast from crystal clusters embedded in the dirt walls. Lifting himself as quickly as he dares, Keith sits up. He’s panting by the time he manages to lean against the wall, but he feels better, safer, in this position. It’s not the most defensible, but it’s better than being caught on his back. Something is better than nothing. He takes the moment of catching his breath to take in his new surroundings, not that there’s much to take in. 

It’s a simple cell, dirt walls, dirt floor, dirt ceiling, with a large, imposing iron door that has no window or visible hardware. The only things in the cell, except the thin pallet he’s lying on, are a stone basin, continuously filling itself from a wooden spout in the wall and, hanging just above that, a small mirror. At least it doesn’t smell like the last cell. In fact, it doesn’t smell like much of anything, except maybe dust. The air too is drier. If he had to guess, he’s in a different part of… whatever it is this place is. Castle? Did faeries live in castles? He’s going to find out, he muses. 

He should have known better than to drink from the stream. He hadn’t trusted it, why in the seven hells had he drank from it? 

“Fuck.” he smacks his head against the wall. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” 

The iron door swings open then, and a Galra carrying a tray steps into the cell, the door closing behind him with a dull thud. The Galra isn’t wearing the armor of a guard. Actually, what he’s wearing almost looks normal, at least for wizards in Keith’s experience: a tunic over tight-fit trousers, with a long coat cinched with a belt. They’re not robes, but still vaguely old-fashioned looking, at least to Keith. But he’s definitely Galra, with the distinctive purple skin and yellow eyes and he towers over Keith, even if he isn’t quite as furry as some of the others. White markings cover most of his face below his eyes and nose, as well as two stripes on either side of his short mohawk. He approaches Keith’s cot, but stops a good two meters away before setting the tray down and kneeling on his haunches. 

“Ah, you are awake,” the Galra says. “Good. How are you feeling?”

Keith snorts. “Like I had to fight for my life in a gladiatorial arena for the entertainment of bloodcrazed fae.” He shoves the memories that dredges up to the side. He’ll deal with that later.

The Galra gives him a look—though it is really hard to tell with those eyes—before picking through his tray. It’s full of bottles and jars, as well as plants and herbs, and what looks like a bowl of broth. He picks up an empty jar, examines it, and stands to fill it with water from the basin. He brings it back and puts it in Keith’s hands. 

“Drink.” 

Keith eyes it dubiously. 

“It won’t extend your stay with us,” the Galra says. 

Keith isn’t sure how honest the Galra is being, but really what does he have to lose? He drinks the entire glass, and another when the Galra refills it and brings it back. 

“Thanks,” Keith says. 

“Do not thank me,” the Galra replies. “Thanks implies a favor owed.” 

Keith studies the Galra. “Noted.” 

The Galra nods once. “Now. I did not get a chance to examine you before. I did what was of utmost necessity but... may I examine you now?” 

“I guess,” Keith says slowly.

The Galra doesn’t move. “Yes or no?” 

Keith takes a breath, holds it, lets it out. “Yes, you may.” 

The Galra brings his tray closer and sits beside Keith to begin checking him over. He starts with Keith’s ankle, rewrapping it and adjusting the wooden log it’s elevated on. As the Galra runs his fingers over the swelling, his touch cools. When he’s satisfied with Keith’s ankle, he moves on to the other, most serious wounds. The smaller cuts, bruises, and scrapes seem to be healing fine on their own, and the Galra doesn’t even bother with them. He pulls a jar from his tray to apply salve and checks his stitches. Keith’s always been a fast healer, another weird trait to go into the “it’s a Galra thing” box. 

“Why are you doing this?” Keith asks finally. 

“You have to be well enough to fight again in the next quintant,” the Galra answers. He sees the way Keith tenses. “Unless you are ready to submit to the Court already?” 

When Keith growls, he adds, “I thought not.” 

Silence falls between them again as the Galra continues his work. Lastly, he lifts both Keith’s wrists in one of his large hands. Keith curls his toes to resist the urge to flinch away. The Galra studies the burns from the cuffs, the skin angry and raw, blistered in some places, peeling away in others. The fur trying to grow there had hurt the most, and Keith can still feel the burning itch of it under his skin, trying to break through. 

“This I do for you, kit,” the Galra says, so quietly Keith almost doesn’t catch it.

He grabs a vial, not from the tray, but from an inside pocket of his coat, and gently applies the oil to Keith’s wrists, rubbing it carefully into the damaged skin. It soothes the burns instantly, and Keith watches the redness recede and the open sores close. The Galra wraps them with the same care and sits back on his haunches. 

“How do you feel now?” 

“Better,” Keith says. He bites back the “thank you” this time. 

The Galra nods and hands him the bowl of broth. “Drink.” 

Keith eyes the broth suspiciously too. One good turn does not trust beget. The Galra sighs, though doesn’t seem surprised by Keith’s hesitance. 

“This will, unfortunately, continue to compel you to speak the truth,” the Galra admits. “But the longer you are here, you will build up an immunity to the effect. Faeries, however, cannot lie, so do not even attempt to.” 

Keith considers this new information, before taking the broth and drinking it slowly. The Galra didn’t have to warn him of the effects, just like he hadn’t needed to reassure him about the water, and Keith can appreciate the gesture. When he hands the bowl back, the Galra sets it back on the tray and stands. 

“Do you require anything else?” 

Keith hesitates, choosing his words carefully. “I wouldn’t refuse fresh clothes.” 

He thinks he sees the Galra’s mouth twitch in a smile before he nods. “I’ll see what can be done.” 

Before he leaves, Keith calls out, “What’s your name?” 

The Galra pauses, looking back with the slight incline of his head. “You may call me Ulaz,” he says. 

Keith nods, and the Galra disappears through the door when it opens for him. As Keith watches the Galra leave, he can feel the dreamless sleep draught in the broth take effect. He lets it pull him under. 

When he wakes the second time, he feels much better, enough to attempt to stand. He does so slowly, testing his range of motion before pulling up into a crouch, then, unsteadily, standing. He feels…off-kilter. He’s taller now, by a good half-meter, and a flick of fur in his peripheral reminds him: oh yeah, tail. He had noticed it before now, of course he did, but he had to prioritize his freak outs in the Colosseum. Now that he has a second to look, really look and process the changes to his body, he reaches back to feel where the tail connects to the base of his spine, twisting to see. At its thickest, he can almost encircle it with one hand, and it stays mostly the same width for the entire length, only tapering gradually at the end, where it has a tuft like a lion’s tail. If it were limp, it would probably drag, but it curves and sways off the ground. If he concentrates, Keith can move it, but it mostly seems to do its own thing. 

He takes a few wobbly steps, and the new tail helps him to keep balance, but he still feels weird, flat-footed almost. He rotates his ankle cautiously, surprised when it doesn’t bend quite like he expected it to. Flexing his foot, Keith rises onto the balls of his feet and it feels... natural to stand that way. He tries to walk again, elongating his stride, and everything falls into sync. He lets out a startled laugh as he shifts between walking to jogging to a full-out run before banking off a corner and jumping nearly two meters off the ground, landing in an easy crouch. He stands again, bending and checking his range of motion. He twists his shoulders nearly perpendicular to his hips, touches his nose to his knees while keeping his back straight, and hooks his heel over his shoulder. So, he’s faster, and he’s definitely more flexible than he was before. He looks down at his hand and flexes his fingers, watching how the claws extend into talons, and it feels as if something has finally slotted into place.

Taking a deep breath, Keith moves toward the mirror. He tells himself to observe without judgement. The first thing he feels when he opens his eyes though is relief. His eyes are still his. The sclera have turned yellow and are glowing faintly, but they’re still  _ his eyes _ . In fact, most of his features are still distinctly his own. The fur on his face is not very long, just giving him the telltale purple hue, with lighter markings cutting across both sides of his jaw and outlining his eyes. His ears have grown and become pointed, the helix more pronounced with darker fur sprouting from under the curve of skin. But they’re mostly hidden by his hair, which hasn’t changed really. He runs his tongue over his teeth and can feel the sharper points of his canines, but they aren’t in danger of cutting or protruding over his lip. It’s not as bad as he feared. He still feels like himself. Something settles in him at this thought. He may look different, but he still feels the same. Now that he’s getting the hang of the physiological changes, Keith is actually a little relieved that his outside matches his inside. He feels realigned. 

He takes stock of the rest of the changes as he uses the water basin to rinse of Ulaz’s salve and check his wounds. Everything is healing well, and many are no more than scars now. His shirt is a lost cause at this point, so he pulls it off to use as a rag. His jumper is long gone too, ditched during his fight lest the loose clothing be used against him. All that’s left him are his leggings, though now they’re several centimeters too short. He uses his t-shirt-turned-rag to work the dirt, dried blood, and leftover salve out of his fur and tries to comb the worst of the snarls out of his hair with his fingers. When he finishes, he doesn’t look better really, but his wounds are clean and healing, so mission accomplished, he thinks.

With that out of the way though, Keith finds he has nothing to occupy himself with other than when the guards might show up again and what might happen to him. He paces the edges of his cell, he meditates (or tries to), he does sets of push-ups and sit-ups, he paces again. He’s about to see if digging his claws into the hard-packed dirt of the wall will support his weight when he finally hears approaching footfalls.

When the door swings open, three guards step in to collect him, two made completely of metal and moving gears, the other Galra. The Galra guard looks him over, sneers, and shouts something Keith can’t understand over their shoulder. A few moments later, the guard steps out and returns with a bundle of cloth that they toss Keith’s way. When Keith picks the items up, they turn out to be a body suit made of darkly-dyed material and a ratty woven tunic with a band collar. Keith arches an eyebrow as he looks at the guard, who just glowers back and snaps at him in the language Keith still can’t understand. Keith understands well enough though when they start to step forward into his space. Keith snarls and bares his teeth, but puts the new garments on. The Galra doesn’t seem impressed by his costume change, but makes a motion at the metal guards, who grab Keith by the arms and march him out of the cell. 

As he’s escorted this time, Keith takes note of the turns they take, committing them to memory best he can. They don’t take him to the same large doors he’d gone through the first time. Instead, he’s pushed into what looks like an armory. The metal guards stand watch at the door as the Galra soldier steps just inside. The guard waves his hand impatiently.     

Keith looks around at the variety of weapons on racks, hung on the walls, and in haphazard piles on wooden tables. There’s a mix of different weaponry, all in various stages of ill-care: polearms with splintering halves; rusting daggers, bows with loose strings; swords with nicked blades. Keith looks slowly, taking as much time as he dares with the testy guard, until he finds a light sword that has a halfway decent balance and at least something of an edge. He glances at the guard and when he’s not looking, he pulls out his dagger and pretends he found it in the piles. The guard doesn’t give it a second glance as the metal guards flank him again and they continue on their way. 

As the get closer to their destination, Keith can hear the roar of the crowd. He wills his spine to straighten and tightens his grip on his chosen weapons. The Galra guard prods him with the butt of his spear and Keith snarls at him instinctively, but goes where prodded. He steps onto a stone platform and it begins to rise, as if it could sense his weight. The screaming of the crowd gets even louder until it’s all Keith can hear as the platform lifts him into the center of the arena. In her usual box sits the empress, tall and regal and cold. His eyes slip closed for a moment before he hears the shriek of his monstrous opponent.  _ Sweet Circe, please let someone be looking for me. _

 

So he fights. He fights and fights: some days, they throw him against four or five opponents in a row; sometimes it’s beasts, sometimes it’s Galra or other Fae; sometimes it’s other prisoners, like himself. Those ones are the worst, even worse by far when they beg him for mercy, beg him to not take their lives. The ones that fight, that claw and snarl and bite, he can give them more time, a false hope, the sense that they died trying. It’s the least he can do to let them take out their anger and fear on him. But the ones that beg, all he can do is end it quickly, but it’s their tears that haunt his dreams. They are always fights to the death. 

They start calling him Champion. 

It goes on this way for what feels like weeks, not that Keith has any sense of time left. He had considered trying to count the days, but there is no routine for him to measure by. Nothing is consistent, not even meals. They feed him when when he’s done a passable job in the arena, but sometimes he fights several bouts in a row: fight, eat, sleep for what only feels like a few hours, get woken up to do it all over again. Sometimes, they leave him locked away for what feels like days. After the first time it happened, he tried to ration his food so he would have a small emergency supply. The next he looked, it turned to ash. He knows they’re doing it on purpose, trying to get him to break. He refuses. 

He only sees Ulaz when his injuries are particularly bad: broken bones that need setting, gashes that need stitches, at one point, one of his wounds gets infected and he almost loses his hand to it. Ulaz sits next to his pallet as he burns with fever and snarls at the guard who tries to collect him for a fight.  _ He’s in no condition to fight. He’s scheduled to fight. There won’t be a fight. He can’t even stand. There’s no entertainment in that. _ Keith can’t be sure it wasn’t just a fever dream, but he doesn't see Ulaz for a long time after that. 

After most of the fever has faded, the guards come back for him again. They’re not even halfway to the armory when they’re stopped by another Galra. This one also wears armor, but Keith can gather from the extra adornments that he isn’t a mere guard. His features are sharp, but strong, with thicker fur but surprisingly no markings. His ears are pointed like Keith’s, but situated on the top of his head, the fur of them a deeper violet than the rest with a white stripe leading to the tips. Keith’s escort stops and quickly salutes. 

“Commander,” she says. 

The other Galra barely acknowledges her. “Our guest is to come with me. The Empress grows impatient with your lack of progress.” 

Keith feels the guard tense beside him, but she doesn’t hesitate to hand him over. There’s an acrid burning on the back of Keith’s tongue that doesn’t feel like his own. Is that the guard’s fear he’s tasting? He files it away for later. He’s gotten very good at compartmentalizing, he thinks wryly. 

The guard salutes again. “Vrepit Sa,” she says, before walking away, at a much brisker pace than they had been setting before.

The commander barks an order at the metal sentries and they turn in a new direction, marching Keith down an unfamiliar hallway. Out of the corner of his eye, Keith watches the Commander, who walks a step ahead of them. It’s possible the guard is afraid of any higher-ranking Galra, but if the guard is afraid, Keith should be wary. He feels his senses sharpening, moving into the same high-alert state he gets when he fights. 

They move into halls that begin to reek of decay and fear. Keith’s ears twitch as they begin to pick up muffled sounds of distress, despairing moans and shrieks of pain. Keith curls and uncurls his fingers at his sides, keeping his eyes trained on the back of the Galra Commander’s head, but he can feel the cold sweat gathering at the back of his neck. They stop at a nondescript door, which the commander opens with a flick of his wrist. 

Waiting for them inside is another figure, and Keith recoils as he recognizes the robes and faceless mask. Druids, the Galra call them in hushed whispers, half in awe and half in terror. Keith doesn’t know much more about them than that, except they smell like burnt ozone and mold. 

“Macidus,” the commander greets him. 

“Thace,” the druid sneers back, though it’s hard to tell through the mask.

The sentries haul Keith to a chair that sits in the middle of the barren room. As soon as he’s brought near the chair, vines lash out and wrap around his limbs, dragging him in and binding him in place, wrist to elbow and ankle to knee. He snarls at the Galra, but doesn’t struggle; he knows he won’t get free, it’s a waste of energy he’ll probably need for whatever it is they have planned.

The commander takes a seat in the back of the room, ignoring the druid as it begins to pace to focus solely on Keith. Instinct tells Keith to keep focus on the commander, that he’s being unobtrusive on purpose. Because he’s looking, he sees the way the commander’s eyes seem to flash and the tell-tale prod at the edges of his consciousness. Immediately, Keith locks down the facets of his mind, containing himself to one space and only thinking of the immediate, the here and now. He swears he feels the commander’s amusement at his attempts.  

“Are you in?” The druid asks. 

“Yes,” the commander says. “Proceed.” 

Keith snarls.  _ Do your worst _ , he thinks viciously.  _ I refuse to break. _ He pulls at his wrists, just a little, to make the vines tighten. The pressure helps keep him grounded. 

The druid turns its attention back to Keith. “Where are you from?” 

“I’m from another forest,” Keith replies. He can’t help thinking of the forest where he grew up, but he can direct the memories to be the most unhelpful ones. He focuses on the images of the trees, their trunks crooked and covered in mosses, of the field he played in as a child, with grasses longer than he was tall. When he hears his Da calling for him, he clutches his dagger tighter and runs deeper into the grass. He’s too focused on directing his memories that he doesn’t see the druid approaching until he feels the shock of its lightning coursing through his body. 

His mind blanks as his body arches off the chair. He thinks he might be screaming. When the pain stops, he’s panting, but out of the corner of his eye, he can see the commander is also short of breath. He tucks the observation behind a wall and looks back at the druid who is leaning into his space. He dregs up all the vitriol he can and directs it toward the Galra. 

“What is your full name?” the druid asks. 

“Keith Kogane.” And honestly, Keith’s only 70% sure that’s accurate. He’s pretty sure Kogane was his father’s family name, and Keith is what he remembers being called, but it’s not like he has an official birth certificate. He’s seven again, all banged knees and sharp elbows, sitting in the hard wooden chair of the magister’s office, glowering at his worn trainers as they decide what to do with him. He longs to go back to his and Da’s cottage in the woods. London is too crowded and it reeks of smog and petrol and dirty rainwater. If only he had been more careful, hadn’t gotten caught filching supplies from the grocer. He wishes his Da was here to take him home. Where is Da? He bites his tongue to keep from crying. 

The druid grabs his face to yank his jaw down to stop him biting his tongue. His mouth is full of blood. He spits it in the druid’s face. The sting of the smack of the druid’s hand clears his mind of the memories. 

Behind them, the other Galra sighs, and the druid rounds on him. “Anything?” the druid demands. 

The commander shrugs lazily. “He’s good, trained in occulmency if I had to guess. It’d help if you refrained from hurting him. You know pain hinders the process.”  

“He’s better than you are?” the druid sneers. 

The commander yawns. “I didn’t say that. Keep asking your questions.”

The druid growls, but turns back to Keith. They continue, on an on in the same pattern: question, non-answer; question, non-answer; question, non-answer, pain. They start asking the same questions, trying to get him to slip up, but Keith honestly doesn’t know what they’re looking for at this point, what they want. And Keith is so, so tired. It works in his favor since he has to really focus on the druid’s words to parse out the question, but when he takes too long to answer, the druid backhands him. There are stars constantly winking in his vision now.  

“How did you get here?” 

“I walked.”    

“Who is your Galra lineage?” 

“I don’t remember her.” Keith freezes the moment he missteps, and the commander strikes out with a suddenness and accuracy that sends Keith reeling. The commander presses, and Keith’s mind shatters open like a glass vial dropped on the dungeon floor. Glass shattering on the flagstone floors, the stench of spilled potion in his nose. His first potions class, Professor Hounerva looming over him and the stupid too-small cauldron that makes his palms itch.  _ Of course you’re allergic to it. It’s made of iron. We require pewter for a reason, Mr. Kogane. Get one from the back cupboard for now. And where is your textbook? I don’t have one. Have you been taking notes? Where’s your parchment and quill? I don’t have any… Your wand? I-i don’t have one… _

He’s sitting in the headmistress’s office while the adults bicker about what to do with him. Headmisstress Sanda thinks that he’s a squib, whatever that is. That there’s been some sort of mistake. Professor Ryner says that the letters don’t make mistakes like that. There has never been a mistake before, not like this.  _ Has anything strange ever happened around you? _   Professor Ryner's voice is kind, kind like that of the social workers'. Keith doesn't trust it, doesn't answer.  _ Something you couldn’t explain? Something spontaneously broke when you were angry, or it started raining when you were sad. _ Keith feels his shoulders move up and down minutely. Well, even if he is a squib, Professor Ryner reasons, they should at least try and find his wizard family. But he doesn’t have family, not here or London or anywhere else. He knew this was a terrible idea, right from the start. He should’ve just stayed at the orphanage. He tries to make himself smaller in the large wingback in front of the Headmistress’s desk, pressing his knees to his chest and wrapping thin arms around his shins. 

There’s a new voice suddenly, piping up from behind them.  _ Um, excuse me, Headmistress? Mr. Antok would like a word. As you can see, Professor Coran, I am currently in a meeting. Yes, of course, normally I wouldn’t interrupt, such a rude breach of social contract, but it is that Mr. Kolivan Marmora is with him, and they would like to speak to you about the Galra boy who joined us in this new batch of students, Mr. Kogane is already there with you, I believe? He’s Galra? _

I’m Galra?! 

_Of course he is, can’t you tell? Though I suppose you can’t be blamed that you couldn’t. His glamour is quite good. I suspect most Alteans would have trouble spotting him. The boy will be a natural at charms! I can already tell._

Galra. He’s Galra? That can’t be right. Galra are just a kiddie story, used to scare children.  _ Behave, or the Galra will take you away, _ the orphanage matron used to say.  _ Take you and gobble you right up! _ But.. if magic is real, and wizards are real, then perhaps all faerie stories are real too, including Galra.. But even so, his father was a normal human, at least he thinks he was. Maybe he wore a glamour like Prof. Coran says he does? This is all starting to make his head swim and he curls up tighter. 

A new voice:  _ Headmistress.  _ It’s rough and deep and reminds Keith of the woven blanket his Da used to wrap around him while the wind howled outside their little cabin in the winter.  _ Where is the boy? What do— He was right here! He couldn’t have just vanished! Well, definitely not a squib then... _ A large hand falls on Keith’s shoulder and he stiffens, but then the large thumb attached to the large hand starts gently rubbing the spot at the base of his skull, just faintly scratching into his scalp. Keith melts into the touch; it takes every fiber of his being not to start purring.  _ Show yourself, kit. _ He looks up again to meet Headmistress Sanda’s perplexed gaze. The headmistress clears her throat. 

_ So. You’re here about Mr. Kogane? Yes. Antok informed me of his arrival. Do you know where his family is? He is of our clan. We claim him. _ Their clan? They claim him? His stomach is rioting, he can’t process, every time he feels he gets his feet, the carpet is pulled from under him. The headmistress clears her throat again.  _ If that’s the case, I must inform you that he came to us woefully unprepared for the semester. He doesn’t even have his wand. We will rectify this, Headmistress. We were unaware of him until now.. We have not had contact with his mother in some time. _ His mother. This man knows his mother. Is possibly related to his mother. His mother, his mother, his mother. He hears a voice cooing to him, speaking gibberish he tries to parrot back. He hears singing. He hears laughter. Her scent is in his nose, strong and spiced: like firewood in the hearth, like pine needles, like sweet buns with tart jam, like smoke. 

He comes back to the small interrogation room and he can’t breathe. He’s choking on tears and the Galra commander is staring at him, eyes flared bright and unreadable. 

“What did you learn?” the druid demands.

“He’s a student at the wizarding school,” the commander says.  

“Please..” Keith whispers. “Don’t..” 

He feels the commander prodding at his mind again. The feeling of fingers on the back of his neck is back, nails scratching into his hair. Keith slumps in the chair as much as his binds will allow. The phantom fingers squeezes gently.  

_ Yield. _

Keith looks up. Meets those brightly golden eyes. 

“I-i yield,” he rasps. “I’ll submit, if you don’t hurt them. Don’t hurt my family.” 

“Your terms are accepted,” the commander says, “Champion of the Galra Court.”  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big thank you to [nautilicious](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nautilicious/profile) for their beta! 
> 
> Come yell with me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/tea_an_books)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Keith meets a bunch of people, makes a few allies, and gets to play with knives. 
> 
>  
> 
> _The creature shuffles forward, pulling down an awkwardly large pair of glasses and adjusting them as it peers up at Keith, its eyes now approximately the size of small apples._
> 
> _“Áno, áno, áno… let’s see what we have,” the creature mutters. “A hunting knife definitely, something multi-purpose.. You are not very big, are you?” the creature only titters when Keith snarls at it. “I meant no offense, friend. Small is quick, small is smart. Small is ruthless. Yes, I have just what you need. Yes, yes.”_

The chair releases him as soon as the commander accepts his terms and Keith slumps forward, trying to clear his mind as blood flow returns to his extremities. Even without seeing the druid’s face, he can smell his fury; it reeks of burnt fur mixed with the sour smell of curdled milk. He hisses something at the commander in Galra, but, the translation comes through, their minds still connected for some reason. 

_ The Empress wanted this one for herself! _

_ And she will still have him, I’m sure. After all, she is the Galra Court while the Emperor recovers, long may he reign. _ the commander replies cooly. 

_ You know what I mean! The druids were supposed to accept his surrender.  _

_ Well, I suppose you will have to explain your failure to the Empress then. _

Keith can still feel the rage coming from the druid in waves, but the commander turns his back on the druid to approach Keith. He offers Keith his hand, but Keith glares and pushes himself up, willing the tremor from his legs as best he can. Through the connection, he feels amusement and… pride? Before the commander lowers his offered hand and retreats from Keith’s mind. Keith breathes a mental sigh of relief. 

“Follow me,” the commander says, starting for the door. Choosing the lesser of the two evils, Keith follows, trotting a little to catch up. 

Once they’re a ways away, and the smell of decay has faded, the commander slows his pace, allowing Keith to begin catching his breath. Keith watches the commander from the corner of his eye.

“Where are we going?” he finally asks. 

“To my enclave, where you’ll be staying from now on. You’ll have a room, you’ll train with the rest of my soldiers, and you’ll have access to the resources at my disposal.” The commander offers a light smirk. “I think you will like it. We are near to the edge of the forest.” 

Keith is quiet for a long stretch. “And this is because I surrendered to you? You’re like my keeper now or something?” 

“Something like that. We made a bargain. You’ll serve the Galra court through my command, and I won’t hurt your family, like you asked.” 

“Seems like a lopsided deal,” Keith mutters. 

The commander lets out a bark of a laugh. “Would you rather be bound to Druid Macidus?” 

Keith shudders at the thought. Lesser of the two evils, he thinks. He just has to survive until he can find a way out of here. Back to where he belongs. 

“Will I be confined to your... enclave?” Keith asks. 

“No, as a full member of the court, you now have the same access as anyone,” the commander says. “Though, I would suggest you be careful where you wander. You may also continue to fight in the arena, if you so wish.”

Keith wrinkles his nose. “Why would I want that?” 

“You are a good fighter, Champion. Continuing to fight will earn you rewards: money, trinkets, prestige, favors. All useful things, yes?”

“Don’t call me that,” Keith growls. 

The commander glances at him, his ears cocking curiously. “Champion? Why not? It is a good name, a powerful one. One that will protect you, if need be. You are known as Champion here. It is better than being known by your true name, yes?” 

Keith huffs, pressing his lips together, but inclines his head in reluctant agreement. The commander laughs. 

“You are a quick learner. You’re already picking up our mannerisms.” 

Keith growls at him again, which only makes the commander laugh more and reach out to ruffle his hair. Keith smacks his hand away. 

“My apologies, little vicious one,” the commander says, still laughing quietly. 

Keith would cross his arms, but that throws his new balance off. He settles for glowering instead. “So. Do you have a name I should call you?” 

“Commander or Thace is fine,” the commander replies. 

Keith considers for a moment, before deciding to act on a hunch. He’s never been the cautious type anyway; he’s no good at this sort of layered social dance.  _ Not the big annoying one? _ he lobs the thought toward the commander. 

The commander stops to turn toward Keith, mouth pulling in a large grin. It shows off most of his teeth when he laughs.

“I am also sometimes known as The Laughing One.” As he says this, he throws an image back at Keith, large coils of deep green scales, and bright eyes on the head of a grinning snake, mouth full of far too many sharp teeth. Thace snickers when Keith freezes. He keeps walking. Keith trots to catch up and stays quiet for the rest of their journey. 

They’re steadily rising now, the glowing crystals that are used for light being replaced with a subdued sunlight as they approach the mouth of a cave. They emerge in a meadow of long grasses, the ends of the wild cotton and wheat fluffy in the watery sun. There are no defined paths, but Thace leads the way confidently through the grass. As they pass through, Keith spots purple, white, and yellow wildflowers in small clusters as well as sagebrush and wild cherries. When they pass out of the tall grasses, they stand in front of a copse of trees, their bows bent and tangled into several tunnels. Thace leads him through the tunnel with eyes carved into the birch trees that curl into the entrance. There are bones hanging from the branches, knocking against each other in the wind.  

On the other side of the tunnel, surrounded by more trees, is a large two-story wooden house with a slanted roof, painted shutters, and intricately-carved balconies, built into the side of a hill. The inside of the house is surprisingly warm, with rich carpets adorning the honey-colored floors. Thace shucks his coat as soon as he’s through the door and drapes it over his arm as he leads Keith through the house, past a parlor where a few Galra are lounging on overstuffed couches, past the kitchen that smells of baking bread and more Galra are playing cards at a large rough-hewn table, through a long hall of doors to what Keith assumes are sleeping quarters, and into a small tiled wash room. Thace grabs a wooden bucket and fills it with various bottles, cloth, and soaps. He pushes the bundle into Keith’s arms. 

“The baths are through there. Wash thoroughly. Gods know what you picked up in the arena, and I don’t want it in my house.” 

Keith snorts. “How considerate of you.” 

Thace grins. “Also, leave your clothes here so we can burn them.” 

Keith eyes him. “...I don’t need new clothes.” 

“I insist.” 

Keith studies him for a moment more but makes a non-committal noise that will hopefully cover his bases in terms of “not accepting gifts” before he strips. As his fingers brush over the sheath that homes his knife,  _ disappear,  _ he thinks. He can feel the knife melting into aether against his back as he yanks his shirt off. He leaves the clothes in a pile for Thace to deal with before he steps into the next room. 

The bath is stiflingly hot, but blessedly empty of any other Galra. There’s a stack of fluffy towels near the door and Keith takes one to wrap around his waist before moving toward what look like shower stalls to scrub off what is likely weeks worth of sweat, grime, and blood. He muddles his way through getting clean what with new fur and hair that hasn’t been dealt with in who knows how long, and unfamiliar, unlabeled hygiene products. The hot bath and steam work miracles on his sore and aching body, though, he’s willing to admit in the privacy of his own mind. There’s a moment of bliss when he first sinks into the water that he thinks he might’ve yielded a lot sooner if they had just said there was a hot bath involved. 

When he’s finished, he towels dry as best he can and returns to the first room where Thace is waiting for him. With him is a little creature that looks a lot like and simultaneously nothing at all like a house elf. It has the same spindly limbs and large ears of a house elf, but it also has a mane of straw-color hair, with a beard long enough to tuck into its belt, and brown horns that poke out of its mess of hair, curling like a ram’s. It also is wearing clothing, and rather fine clothing if Keith is any sort of judge. It has a little knit stocking hat, and a tiny leather vest that matches its belt, worn over an embroidered shirt and leggings. The little creature is chittering excitedly at Thace, while the Galra just smiles and nods along. When the creature spots Keith, it makes an exclamatory noise and bows before skittering over to him and tugging the towel away from him. Keith yelps and grabs for it, but it disappears with a quiet popping noise. 

Thace laughs. “You’re going to have to get used to casual nudity. Don’t be so Altean,” he says. “And sit still while Domovchik measures. Unless you’d rather walk around in just your fur?” 

Keith grumbles, but stills, letting the little creature move him around like a rag doll as he takes his measurements. The creature continues to chitter away, Thace humming sporadically in acknowledgement. If he’s going to be here much longer, he’s going to have to start studying Galran, Keith thinks sourly. When the measuring is finally done with, Thace throws a bundle of clothes at him, and Keith gratefully dresses. 

The clothes are pretty much the same as to what he had before, leggings, a tunic, and a sash, but different colors and made of nicer fabric. This set is such a deep midnight blue as to almost be black, while the sash shimmers like it’s made of some sort of silk. Once dressed, the little creature is back, tugging at seams and loose bits of cloth. Under his spindly fingers, the cloth tailors itself, fitting better than any clothes Keith has owned in his life. The creature’s chittering turns metronomic and tiny bits of embroidery blossom along the collar and edges of his tunic, dancing bits of runes and pictographs that Keith can’t quite interpret. 

“That will do for now, Domochik,” Thace says. He looks at the little creature and grins broadly. “You outdo yourself every time.” 

The little creature beams back and sweeps its hat off in a bow before it disappears with another little pop. 

“Come on then,” Thace says, turning his attention back to Keith. “I’ll show you where you can rest.” 

He leads Keith back down the long hall of doors, but what Keith didn’t notice was that each door is a different color and has a different motif carved into the rails and panels. He’s mesmerized by the loping foxes and elk as they run through the grasses of a rail on a dark red door, while birds dart above mountains on the next door, stained ash grey. Thace pauses in front of a door painted midnight blue. Pines rustle and sway under a sky full of stars and a full moon in the twin panels, and a pack of wolves runs along the rails, leaving little paw prints in the snow that are blown away in an invisible wind. 

“This room, I think,” Thace says, mostly to himself. He sets his hand on the glass doorknob for a moment before pushing the door open. 

The room beyond is bigger than normal physics should allow, easily twice the size it should be, with a main level and a loft. The stone fireplace along the interior wall roars to life as soon as they step in, and flames flicker to life in brass lanterns floating near the ceiling, casting light and shadow in patterns along the exposed beams. There’s a small dining area with a small table, a few counters, and cabinets, and a living area with Turkish-style rugs, two overstuffed wing chairs as well as a leather settee, and a handful of various pillows, cushions, and throws. Underneath the loft are built-in shelves, more floating lamps, and a large writing desk. 

Thace nods to the stairs against the wall on the other side of one of the bookshelves. “Sleeping quarters are upstairs,” he says. “If you need more than what’s there, let me know. You should have a uniform by the morning, along with your other clothes. It will appear in the wardrobe. We will requisition you a weapon tomorrow as well. I believe you prefer blades.” 

Thace has seen him fight in the arena then; he’s not sure if he should feel better or worse for it, but decides in the end it doesn’t matter. He was put on display, and there’s nothing he can do about that, or what the Galra think of him because of it. He just nods that, yes, he does prefer blades. He doesn’t mention he already has a blade; the longer he can keep it hidden, the better. 

“That should suffice for today then,” Thace says. “The space is now yours, and protected as such. Rest well, little vicious one.” 

“Good night,” Keith replies, waiting until Thace leaves to carry himself upstairs to where sleep is waiting for him. 

In the loft there isn’t so much a bed as a thick sleeping mat piled with enormous pillows, thick furs, and woven blankets. Keith doesn’t think he’s seen a more welcome sight in his life. He crawls in and burrows deep. He slurs the command he found for his knife to come back and tucks it under his pillow before dropping asleep like a stone into the lake. 

His sleep is dreamless, but in the morning Keith catapults awake with the sound of something large and wet hitting the floor next to him. He sees the carcass first, what looks like a cross between a squirrel and a hare, but the size of a wild boar, with the tusks to match. Crouched next to the dead animal is the wild child Keith had seen in the forest. The child straightens when he sees Keith is awake and scrambles onto the bed with him, forcing his way into Keith’s lap and nuzzling against his shoulder. Keith sets his knife down as the child presses his head against his wrist insistently.

“Uh, hello…” Scratching the child’s furred ears as they’re pushed against his hand earns Keith a pleased growl. 

“Is this for me?” he asks, nodding toward the animal carcass. 

The child yips, and Keith sees the swish of a fluffy tail. He’s the picture of a preening dog trying to please his owner. 

“Um, good boy..?” Keith tries, scratching the child’s ears again. The tail thumps against the blankets. “I guess let’s take this to the kitchen and see what we can do with it.”

He disentangles himself from the child with some effort, every time he gets a limb free, the child clings to another, before going over to the wardrobe against the far wall. Just as Thace said, the wardrobe has been stocked overnight with clothes for every conceivable occasion. Keith grabs what looks most like the uniform Thace mentioned before shutting the cabinet door. He pauses though to look at the child again. 

“There probably isn’t any way for me to convince you to put on pants, is there?” he asks. 

The child cocks his head to the side, ears twitching akimbo. 

“Yeah, thought not.” 

Keith dresses quickly before hoisting the dead animal onto his shoulder. The child trots behind him, following as Keith backtracks to the kitchen he saw the day before. He’s searching for a way to truss the creature up so he can gut it when he hears a voice. 

“Well, you do quick work, don’t you?”

Keith wheels around and sees Thace leaning in the doorway, arms crossed but amused grin on his face.   

“I didn’t—” Keith glances around, but the child is gone. He looks back at Thace. “It was a gift.” 

“Like I said, fast work.” Thace pushes himself off the door frame and comes into the kitchen, fishing a sharp blade from a drawer. “Use this to dress it for now. Then, we will get you a proper blade.” 

Working in tandem, they dress and butcher the animal in short order. Thace takes the meat and stores it in the cold box and shows Keith where he can hang the antlered skull and the skin to dry. 

“I am impressed,” Thace says when they finish. “I have never known a wizard to butcher their own meat.” 

Keith shrugs. “I haven’t been a wizard very long.” In the quiet of the early morning kitchen, it’s easy to forget he’s not back home—not at Hogwarts, but in the cottage. The roles are reversed, Da would dress and butcher the rabbits while Keith gathered the meat and edible organs for the cooler and the scraps for the slop pit, but as soon as Keith’s hands are big enough to hold the knife properly, Da promised he’d teach him. Keith shakes the thought away, feeling Thace’s glowing gaze on him. 

He focuses instead on a wandless Scourgify, flicking his fingers through the movement. It’s a simple piece of magic, easy enough for the little bit of blood on his hands, even without his wand. He lifts his hand to do the same for Thace when the Galra’s hand snatches him by the wrist. 

“Think about magicking me without my permission again,” the Galra says, dangerous in its blandness, “and I will hang you from a tree by your own entrails, Champion or not.” 

Keith’s fingers flex unconsciously, still in Thace’s grasp. “Noted. Would you..?”

“No.” Thace releases his wrist and Keith resists the urge to rub it as Thace makes his way over to the sink. “I would refrain from doing Altean magic here. You’ll find it draws unwanted attention.” 

Keith bites back his questions and the slight jump in his anxiety at the idea of no magic whatsoever. He’s vulnerable enough here as it is, but he knows better than to argue with the Galra. Once the commander has washed, they make their way out of the house again, back through the tunnels, but they appear in a field that Keith swears is different from the one they’d traveled through the previous day. It was also not winter the day before. The field is scrub brush and winter-hearty grasses. Frost crunches under Keith’s feet and his breath clouds in the morning air. 

“The Karzelek prefer winter,” Thace comments, “Veles know why, they hardly ever come out of their caves.” 

Keith hums that he heard him, but he’s a little more concerned with the megafauna bones they’ve used to decorate the entrance to their caves. They pass under an archway of rib bones, standing taller than them by a good meter. The cave proper is just a few degrees above tolerable, with lanterns strung along the ceiling and more thick bleached bones used as support beams. Keith thinks the main support columns are femurs. He doesn’t want to know from what. 

“Greetings Commander! To what do I owe the pleasure?” 

The voice belongs to a hunched creature, skin dark with soot and dirt. Keith is somewhat perturbed that it managed to get so close without alerting them; the thing is carrying at least double its weight in junk. It has a lantern and a pickaxe hanging from one hip, a small cage with a small bird on the other. On its back are various bundles of oil cloth, woven nets full of rocks, and glass bottles sloshing various colored liquids. 

“Ah, Kamen! Good to see you,” Thace replies to the little creature. “I’ve a new recruit in need of your fine work.”

When Thace nods to Keith, the creature shuffles forward, pulling down an awkwardly large pair of glasses and adjusting them as it peers up at the smaller Galra, its eyes now approximately the size of small apples. 

“ Á no, áno, áno… let’s see what we have,” the creature mutters. “A hunting knife definitely, something multi-purpose.. You are not very big, are you?” the creature only titters when Keith snarls at it. “I meant no offense, friend. Small is quick, small is smart. Small is ruthless. Yes, I have just what you need. Yes, yes.” 

The creature wiggles its way out of its pack and riffles through it, pulling free a large oilskin, taller than itself. As it rolls the cloth out, it reveals a large assortment of blades of various makes and sizes, enough to make Keith itch to touch. The creature’s fingers wiggle as it hovers over the weapons before it plucks a hunting knife with a leather sheath from the collection and hands it to Keith. Pulling the knife free, Keith examines the blade, made of a dark gray metal like storm clouds, with the same shifting iridescence as sheet lighting. The hilt is made of a dark wood as well, with an intricate patterned inlay of silver-blue-purple, depending on the light and angle. Keith settles the blade on his palm to test the weight and balance. It feels like it was made for his grip.

“It’s beautiful,” Keith tells the creature, and the creature preens. 

“A multipurpose blade,” the creature says. “Will respond to your needs. Go on! Try!” 

Keith cocks an eyebrow, but inclines his head before looking down at the knife. He shifts his grip and thinks of cutting through the brush and bramble of the forest. The hilt shudders under his hand and between one blink and the next, Keith is holding a machete. The creature cackles and claps its hands, telling him “again!” Keith thinks of building a fire, he’s holding a small hand axe; he thinks of fish, he’s holding a short fishing spear; he thinks of eating said fish, he’s holding a paring knife. He thinks of dressing an animal similar to the one from this morning and he’s holding a hunting knife again.

The creature looks pleased. “You are at home with a blade, yes. The blade likes you, yes, yes. It’s yours.” 

Keith sees Thace nod in the corner of his vision and Keith ties the sheath onto his belt, settling the blade on his hip. 

“What about something for defense?” Thace asks, looking to the creature. 

The creature blinks its bulbous eyes, tilting its head to the side like a confused dog, before looking at Keith again, studying him. It’s eyes light up. 

“Ah, I see. I see.  Á no, áno, let’s see..” it says, still mumbling to itself as it lets its fingers skitter over the collection of blades again. This time, it picks up a belt that holds three short daggers. The creature shuffles over to attach the holster to Keith’s thigh.

“Small is smart,” it mutters as it works. “Does not show all its tricks. Dangerous enough not to eat, but not  _ too  _ dangerous. Yes, yes… very smart.” 

Keith tries not to shift as the creature works, tries to swallow down his panic that somehow the creature can see through the glamor on the knife strapped to the small of his back. But it doesn’t seem inclined to spill his secret. Keith catches its gaze and inclines his head just slightly. The creature beams. 

“Go on,” it urges when it steps back. “Try, try!” 

Keith moves a little to get used to the new holster before drawing one of the blades without looking. It has a ring at the end of the hilt where his index finger naturally fits, and he pulls and makes a few swipes with the curved blade, fluid as if it were an extension of his arm. The creature makes a gleeful noise, bouncing on the balls of its feet. 

“Good, good! Now throw!” it says. 

Keith complies, spinning the knife around his finger until he has a better grip. When he pivots to find a target, a wooden post appears a few meters distant, and Keith cocks his arm to throw. As he reaches back, he feels the knife shift out of his vision and as he releases, the now-straight blade spins before hitting its mark with a satisfying  _ thunk _ , biting deep into the wood. 

“Wait, wait!” it says when Keith moves to retrieve the blade. I moment later, the blade across the cave shimmers and disappears, before Keith can feel its weight returned to the thigh holster. The little creature cackles in delight again. 

“Yes, these are the blades meant for you. They are yours. You have everything you need now, yes.” 

Thace is frowning, but Keith inclines his head. “Thank you, Kamen. They’re wonderful.” 

The creature blinks, but grins broadly, showing off a mouth full of needle-shaped teeth. It sweeps into a surprisingly graceful bow. “A pleasure, Master Champion,” it says, before disappearing with a small pop.  

“Well,” Thace breaks the silence in the wake of the creature’s disappearance. “Not what I expected, but the Karzelek are never wrong when it comes to weaponry. You didn’t need to thank it, you know,” he says as they make their way out of the cave. “Thanks implies an owed favor.” 

Keith makes a neutral humming noise, as if the warning was new information. Like he hadn’t thanked Kamen on purpose. “Noted.”  

They make their way back to the compound where the rest of the Galra are training in the open space behind the house. There is hardly a response from them as Thace and Keith join them, standing on the edge to watch for a few minutes before the commander approaches a pair of Galra sparing hand-to-hand. They both stop and stand at attention for Thace, who waves a dismissive hand. 

“The Champion has joined us as our newest recruit. I leave him in your capable care, Regeris.” 

The smaller of the two Galra nods. He looks reptilian, with blue-toned skin and a long spiked tail swaying next to him. Keith notes that the reptilian Galra doesn’t have eyes, just light blue markings, two slits for nostrils and thin, jagged lips, and is surprised when the Galra turns to face him, even though he hasn’t said anything. 

“Try not to kill him right away,” Thace says to the Galra, ruffling Keith’s hair before striding off. 

Thace sounds like he’s joking, but the reptilian Galra inclines his head in all seriousness before nodding for Keith to take the space vacated by his last sparring partner. Keith isn’t sure how to indicate to a Galra who can’t see that he’s ready, but he shouldn’t have worried. As soon as he’s settled in place, the reptilian Galra launches himself at Keith and they’re not pulling any punches from the start. Keith has to fight dirty to gain any ground, but his partner doesn’t seem to expect any less from him. 

Keith holds his own well enough, adapting quickly and testing the Galra’s boundaries, how well he can “see” without eyes. It turns out pretty well, and Keith is sweaty and sore by the end of the session, but his blood is singing in the best possible way. He hates to admit it, even just to himself, but he hasn’t felt this alive, this in-tune, this  _ good _ , in a long time. He follows Regeris inside with the rest of the Galra to the kitchen where he’s too worn out to even question as he’s handed a bowl of stew and a basket of bread and directed to the long wooden table where the rest of the soldiers are eating. 

He sits next to Regeris and settles in to eat, letting the wash of chatter flow around him. Most of them are speaking Galran, so it’s not like he can understand, and he’s too pleasantly tired to make any sort of attempt, though he makes a note that he’ll need to start learning soon. There’s probably a library somewhere within the court. He just has to find it. For the time being, he just watches, gleaning what he can from body language and tone. It’s not much, but it’s enough for now. When the meal is more or less finished, the dishes are cleared away and a pack of cards materializes. Keith slips away easily and heads back to his rooms. 

He washes away the grime from the day and changes, setting the new weapons on what looks something like a coat rack near the wardrobe, though he takes his blade and the hunting knife as he settles among the pillows of his bed. He thinks about what the Karzelek said: he had everything he needed. He had the impression the creature was including his knife in that statement, but Keith doubted that any of the weapons he had now would be of much use to him if he ever had to fight someone like Sendak again, especially head on. He wasn’t even sure he’d be able to deter something like a bear with his knife. Perhaps the hunting knife could shift into something larger? 

He holds the knife and thinks about being attacked by a bear or some other large creature in the woods. The hilt of the hunting knife tingles against his palm, but it feels reluctant. Slowly, much more slowly than before, it changes into a short double-edged sword, but it doesn’t hold the shape for long before turning back into a hunting knife. Keith swears he feels something like annoyance radiating off his knife. He holds that knife up, running his thumb over the symbol in the cross-hilt he now recognizes as Galran. He wills it to change for him to suit the imaginary scenario, but it stubbornly stays the same in his hand. Keith sighs and sets them both aside, rubbing his eyes. 

What he has will suffice for now until he can figure out exactly what the Karzelek meant by “not showing all his tricks.” Research was never exactly his forte, but he might be able to find something helpful in the Court’s library. If he can find it. If he can read any of it. He groans, hitting his head back against the pillows. One problem at a time. Next steps sketched out, Keith burrows himself into the sheets and falls asleep thinking of knives and caves and snow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again to [nautilicious](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nautilicious/profile) for their beta!

**Author's Note:**

> Come yell at me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/tea_an_books) I guess..?


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